


Respite

by ospreyx



Category: Sekiro: Shadows Die Twice (Video Game)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Fluff, Gen, Introspection, Mild Blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:13:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23089153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ospreyx/pseuds/ospreyx
Summary: Kuro knows better than to ask Wolf to rest. Instead, he asks Wolf to keep him company.
Relationships: Kuro | The Divine Heir & Sekiro | Wolf
Comments: 7
Kudos: 76





	Respite

**Author's Note:**

> the purification ending hurt me, so i wrote this. nothing special, just wolf and kuro hanging out and Not Dying for a while.
> 
> i know the events of the game carry out over the course of a day, but i stretched it out over a few weeks instead. it just feels better to me.

Wolf had always arrived with naught more than a hushed whisper. Behind him, if he truly focused, he could hear the faint creak of the floorboards, the gentle clack of Wolf’s prosthetic folding at his side as he knelt. The suddenness of his arrival had long since taken Kuro by surprise. 

Low in his throat, chin tucked into his scarf, Kuro heard his loyal Wolf murmur, “My lord.”

Kuro slid a torn leaflet between the pages he had been reading before he snapped his book shut. There was nothing inherently useful in any of the books he’d picked off the dilapidated shelves of the library; there was already a stack of books a few feet away, dog-eared and creased down their spines, but he doubted he would return to any of them.

Somehow, the fate that he would reach loomed ominously closer than it had before. Death in and of itself wasn’t a frightening concept. What was frightening was that he had no way of knowing what would come after death. It was the idea that there would be _nothing_ \- a vast, empty void that he would return to, as slow and steady as a stone that sinks to the bottom of a river.

“Yes, Wolf?”

From where he knelt, Wolf presented a white flower. Its petals were delicate, glowing from the vigor of the Rejuvenating Waters, the sweetest fragrance reaching Kuro’s nostrils when he took it in his own hands. It was a wonder, this myth of a flower, hidden far below in the Sunken Valley that his Wolf no doubt struggled to navigate through.

Something settled in his gut, deep and ugly, lurching further at the shock of gray that stained Wolf’s skin, tainted a portion of his hair. And what hurt more was that it seemed of no concern to Wolf - forever swathed in this curse of undying, returning from mortal wounds with sakura in his nostrils and ashes in the back of his throat. 

“You did well,” Kuro told him. “I hope it wasn’t too much trouble to find.”

Wolf remained silent, waiting vigilantly for either dismissal or command. His eyes were still cast downwards, countenance impassive as it always was, yet Kuro recognized how his prosthetic pressed against his abdomen. A deep, almost black stain spread ever so slowly through the fabric of his shitagi, just barely visible under the artificial hand that curled over it.

“Wolf.” At the distress in Kuro’s tone, Wolf sharply glanced upwards. “You’re hurt.”

“It’s not of any concern,” Wolf promptly responded.

Kuro held his breath for one long, painstaking moment. What was it that Wolf said before? That he would return as many times as he needed to, that he would sacrifice everything if it was for Kuro’s well-being? And it was a shame that Wolf was this skilled in hiding his pain. How many wounds had he returned to Kuro with, hidden cruelly under his haori, staining his shitagi an ugly crimson?

“That’s not a burden I want you to bear.” Kuro placed a hand on Wolf’s shoulder, the fabric of his scarf a soft whisper against his skin. “Have Emma see to your wounds.”

Wolf nodded and stood as if it were yet another command to dutifully carry through. Kuro wondered if he would have treated the wound properly otherwise.

* * *

For some time, Kuro returned to his books, but it was difficult to focus. Every word was empty and numb in his mind, every sentence coming and going as the leaves that were whisked away in the wind. Just in the other room, he could hear Emma’s soft words, spoken in a somber whisper, drowned out by the rush and trickle of water.

Eventually, he peeked out of the library towards the staircase. Wolf was already shrugging his shitagi back into place, cross-legged where Emma knelt. Just past Wolf’s discarded haori, he caught the sight of a stack of wet cloths, neatly folded and stained a harsh red. The bowl at her side was also tinted red, deep and blatant enough to make Kuro’s stomach twist.

Gathering her supplies, Emma quietly stated, “Some rest would do you well, Lord Wolf.”

Kuro returned to his books with a heavy sigh. He knew his Wolf’s wounds would mend themselves upon the next resurrection. He knew that the skin would knit back together as if nothing happened, and only a faint scar would be left behind depending on the severity of the wound, but that wasn’t a comforting thought at all. 

Wolf entered the library shortly afterwards. Kuro watched as he approached the opened window, abruptly asking, “Are you leaving?”

Wolf, having readied his prosthetic, lowered his arm from where it aimed out the window. “Yes.”

“But you’re wounded.”

It almost hurt, how genuinely perplexed Wolf seemed by the concern Kuro expressed. He merely stated, “It will not hinder me.”

Kuro knew full well that Wolf would refuse to rest if it was asked of him. It wouldn’t have been the first time - he would be on the brink of death, and yet still, he would insist that there was work to be done.

But what was another night of waiting on the last ingredient for the aroma? What was another night to a world already infested, already haunted by the Waters?

“Will you keep me company while I cross-reference these texts?”

Wolf regarded him with an odd expression. Slowly, he pulled the wooden panel back shut. “Of course, my lord.”

* * *

Kuro was used to working in silence. He was used to spending long hours alone at the library, complaining quietly to himself about the dust, occasionally taking note on particular quotes that he found interesting. 

It was remarkably different, having Wolf there to listen to him ramble, but he found that he liked it. Liked having someone to throw his ideas at, liked having someone that had a response for him each time he asked for one. He didn’t remember when he fell asleep, but he woke up the next day on his futon, with Wolf nowhere to be found.

A few days had passed since then. Days spent alone, as always, reading by candle light, window thrown wide open for Wolf to arrive.

When Wolf finally did make an appearance, he did not expect to receive a small pouch filled with rice. From the Divine Child, Wolf had said to him, seemingly troubled when he continued to explain exactly who the Divine Children were. Kuro tried not to focus on the horror that was the bastardization of his bloodline.

Instead, he focused on the rice. Small, each grain glistening, ready to be cooked. He promptly told Wolf, “I’ll make something nice for you.”

He knew it was a gift, but this was the least he could do. A simple thanks could only go so far - and Wolf was one to understand through actions. Through kneeling as if he were an equal, through receiving sweets that Kuro _knew_ he would adore.

Or at least, he hoped.

Wolf seemed perplexed once more. “Something nice. . . ?”

“It’ll take a while, but it’ll be well worth your wait.” 

He tugged the pouch back shut. Wolf had not stood yet, still kneeling with his eyes cast downwards, waiting for dismissal. Some part of him wasn’t ready to dismiss Wolf yet, though. He wasn’t sure what it was - the weeping tear at his shoulder, or the few strands of hair that had fallen out of place, or the splatter of blood across his front that thankfully did not belong to him.

Wolf had done so much. When will he ever rest?

“Will you keep me company, Wolf?”

Wolf glanced back up at him. His countenance remained impassive as it always did, but something curious lingered in his eyes. He answered softly, “Yes, my lord.”

Kuro gestured to the tear in Wolf’s haori. His fingertips were just a few short centimeters away from it, from where a wound was no doubt soaking into the fabric, from where he knew something - someone, some creature, some _horror_ \- had nicked him. “See Emma about your wounds while I prepare.”

Wolf bowed his head before he stood.

* * *

It wasn’t too difficult to sneak through Ashina castle into the kitchens. The sun had set some time before Wolf returned, and the castle stood quiet in the tranquil night - save for the nightjar that still roamed the rooftops and the few assassins that were still sent by the day. Emma protested, at first, but she made no real effort in stopping them on their way out.

For the first time in a long while, Kuro felt that rush in his chest, burning through him as it did when he snuck into the kitchens back in the Hirata estate. And somehow, with Wolf at his side, carrying a small handful of books that he insisted on taking for the wait time, it was more exhilarating than it had ever been.

He tried not to focus too much on the artificial hand that was poised on Kusabimaru’s hilt along the entire way.

“Will you tell me a story?”

Behind him, watching as he worked, Wolf shifted. “I have no stories to tell.”

Kuro glanced back to where Wolf had settled. He took note of the few kunai that were scattered about, the handful of firecrackers, the flame barrel that glistened in the kitchen’s light. He picked up his Sabimaru first.

“Everyone has a story to tell,” Kuro said as he returned to his work, “whether it be their own or someone else’s.”

Wolf remained silent. Despite the lack of a response, Kuro still appreciated his presence - it was better than being alone, flipping through the books that offered him nothing, dragging long into the night until Emma urged him to sleep.

“My father once took me to the Valley.” 

Kuro halted. He glanced over to where Wolf polished his Sabimaru, another dirtied cloth resting on one knee. Shrouded in the shadowy corner he had retreated to, he could see Wolf’s expression, as serious as it was contemplative, as if he struggled to recall the memory. 

Slowly, Kuro turned back to the rice at hand, listening as Wolf continued, “To discern various poisons, and to make the antidote to each one. . . .”

* * *

Some time passed before Wolf quieted. Kuro listened to each story he told - of the lessons he’d learned, the hardships he’d endured, the places he’d visited (though those were increasingly fuzzy memories, apparently). It wasn’t until Kuro had finished wrapping each sweet rice ball that he noticed that Wolf had fallen asleep, his phantom kunai still resting in his hand.

Kuro set the rice balls aside. He settled at the table where Wolf left his books, stacked neatly in the center, Lord Takeru’s journal placed considerately at the very top. He could only spare Wolf another painful glance before he opened his next book.

Wolf was still drenched in blood that wasn’t his own, chin tucked into his scarf, small traces of crimson still visible from where they had been wiped off. His shitagi marred with red, haori torn jaggedly at the shoulder, revealing the bandages that Emma had left behind. 

He would have left anyways if Kuro didn’t ask him to stay, would have pushed right past it all without a single complaint. His loyal, faithful Wolf, going to the ends of both the mortal and the divine realm and back to achieve Kuro’s wishes for immortal severance. There was nothing Wolf wouldn’t do. There was nowhere Wolf wouldn’t venture to. 

What was a lord to feel for his retainer? Neither admiration nor adoration, perhaps, yet Kuro felt both. He supposed the correct word would be _respect_ \- though Wolf never demanded it of him. Never cared for it. Had never seen it, until Kuro asked him for help in his endeavor to sever immortality. Kuro mirrored Wolf’s actions that day and knelt, pleaded with him in the only way he knew Wolf would understand.

And of course Wolf understood. He always did.

If immortal severance was not for the men that were frequently seduced by the allure of immortality, if it was not for Kuro himself, then it was for Wolf. To end this never-ending cycle of death and resurrection, to alleviate him of his grueling duty as a disposable weapon.

Because he was not disposable. He was not a mere weapon. He was not a starving, lonesome wolf. He was human. 

Human enough to sleep. Human enough to hurt. Human enough to die, to return to whichever power created man, and it was not Kuro’s right to remove that from him. It was not anyone’s right to circumvent death. Yet here they were, ruled by the rapidly growing infestation, haunted by the cruel allure of immortality.

At least they were closer, now. One step closer to the Fountainhead Palace, another step closer to severing immortality. At Wolf’s side, amongst the prosthetic tools he’d been polishing, the Mortal Blade sat idle, cradled in its discolored sheath. Kuro had just recently learned about the bastardization of the Dragon’s Heritage that had come to light; that in itself hardened his resolve, regardless of the fear that lingered and the apprehension that he felt in Emma’s melancholic gaze.

Come dawn, the incense would be completed, and then Wolf would be gone, on his way to the divine realm to retrieve the dragon’s tears. How many more times would he die? How many more times would he rise in a haze of blood and sakura petals to achieve this goal?

It took a long while before Wolf stirred. Kuro looked over to him, heart heavy and eyes aching, a book balanced precariously in one hand. He watched as his shinobi slowly blinked back into consciousness.

Kuro gently asked, “Did you dream about anything?”

Wolf opened his mouth once, halted, clicked it back shut. He seemed apprehensive, something like an apology no doubt lingering on his tongue, but he instead pondered the question. He eventually answered with a tentative shake of the head, “I don’t dream, my lord.”

Kuro laughed at that. “Now that isn’t true.” Wolf tilted his head ever so slightly, listening as intently as he always had when Kuro explained, “Everyone dreams, Wolf. It’s inescapable. You just can’t remember what you dream about.”

Kuro finally clicked his book shut, not bothering to keep a tab on what he last read. There was nothing that would change, nothing remotely useful beyond what he had already found through Lord Takeru’s work. He wondered, briefly, if it was worth searching for more - all he found, if anything, were more open-ended hints that did nothing to answer his questions.

Wolf’s expression was something reminiscent of curiosity. Knowing his Wolf wasn’t one to pry, Kuro said, “I have one recurring dream.”

Wolf straightened a bit.

“I dream about opening a tea house one day. I dream about sharing the sweets that I used to make when I would sneak into the kitchens at the Hirata estate.” He saw how Wolf’s expression softened, the change subtle, eyes never leaving his as he continued, “And there would be no fires of war raging on, no ministry assassins at our doorstep, no nightjar keeping watch with their smoke and their monoculars.” He let out a sigh. “It’s far-fetched, but that’s what dreams often are.”

For some time, Wolf stared. Were it not for the silence of the night, Kuro might have missed Wolf’s soft, oddly somber murmur, “. . . That sounds nice.”

Kuro set his book aside on the table, balancing it carefully atop the haphazardous mountain he’d created amidst his cross-referencing, and only then did he remember the sweet rice balls he made earlier. He took one in hand, wrapped neatly in rice paper, and offered it to Wolf.

“Here! This is for you.”

Wolf immediately stood, the faintest hint of confusion in his voice when he asked, “For me. . . ?”

“Try it.” Wolf’s prosthetic was a shock against his skin, cold and unforgiving, contradicted by how delicately he cradled the sweet rice ball in his hands. Kuro eagerly urged, “Don’t be shy!”

Wolf was hesitant on the first bite. His eyes widened, and he took another, and to Kuro’s delight, he gladly accepted the next rice ball that was offered. He heard Wolf’s soft, wondrous murmur, “These are . . . very good. . . .”

“Would you visit, Wolf?” Wolf tilted his head in question, to which Kuro explained, “My tea house. Would you visit if I promised you more sweets?”

Perhaps it was cruel to speak of a future that would never come to light, but that didn’t matter to Kuro. For a moment, he yearned to pretend, to fantasize, to joke as if it were a possibility. And with an ache in his chest, he smiled at Wolf’s genuine response, “Yes, my lord. As often as you’d allow.”

* * *

Ashina was burning. As far as the eye could see, there were flames, raging and roaring as the night carried on, muffling when he finally disappeared into the secret passage.

Wolf arrived shortly after the chaos erupted. It took a long while, with the booming thunder and the metallic screech of colliding metal ringing in Kuro’s ears, but eventually, everything fell silent.

Soon, Wolf was at his side once more, the concern in his voice painful, the arms that held him agonizingly gentle. Kuro cleared the blood at the back of his throat as Wolf unraveled his scarf. Kuro allowed him to wrap it around his own neck, thick and heavy and smelling strongly of copper and sakura.

It felt like a farewell. It felt like a parting gift. He was sinking ever so slowly in a way he could have never prepared himself for. He briefly wondered, as the edges of his vision frayed, what he would have named his tea house.

It wasn’t until after he woke up alone in a field of white flowers that he considered naming it after his loyal Wolf.

**Author's Note:**

> come say hello to me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/ospreyxxx) ✨


End file.
